Red Herring
by JuliennePotato
Summary: Welcome to Haven. A town for the tough, the corrupt, the brokenhearted. Some call it dark. I call it home. Slight AU.


Red Herring

**Story Description:** Welcome to Haven, a town that beckons to the tough, the corrupt, the brokenhearted. Some call it dark. I call it home.

**Author's Note: **So ... hello again. There's an author's note at the bottom which isn't related to this story for those that might be interested, but for now here's some things you probably need to know before reading Red Herring:  
This is a slight AU. Haven is grittier, darker, and altogether more hard-boiled. The rating may go up for later chapters. It's set in Haven during Holly and Artemis' disappearance on Hybras, and neither the B'Wa Kell or Koboi Laboratories were quite so crippled at the end of _The Arctic Incident_ as in canon.

* * *

The bar at the corner of Carroll and Main was famous for two things; sim-bourbon and violence. It was frequented by lowlife smugglers and down-and-out businessmen driven into shady dealings behind a layer of fungal smoke so thick you could rest your glass on it. If you trusted the clientele enough to ever let your glass out of your hand.

The evening had been pretty quiet since I'd entered over an hour ago. The occasional cocking of a Neutrino trigger formed the soundtrack of most nights, and unless you found yourself nose-to-nose with the offending weapon, it was easy enough to ignore.

That was, until the door to the bar opened and let in a rush of recycled air and a sharply-dressed police officer with a posture so upright he probably checked it with a side rule. One of the good ones. Hands immediately leapt to protective positions over holsters, and the passively threatening mood of the bar turned like a goblin faced with long division.

'I'm looking for Mulch Diggums,' the officer announced in a voice that suggested he didn't know how many barrels were currently aimed at his head. A directive grunt from the table next to the door pointed him to my location at the corner of the bar. So much for honour amongst thieves. Heels – no doubt attached to meticulously shined boots – marched over, and the bar stool next to me was soon filled by the quixotic shape of Major Trouble Kelp.

'Diggums,' he said by way of greeting.

I took a swig of sim-whisky. 'Kelp.'

'I've been looking for you all evening.'

'My office hours are nine 'til three. Look for me then.'

Trouble laughed humourlessly before waving away Al, the barkeep.

'Still not a drinker? I thought two decades in the LEP was more than enough to give anyone a chronic alcohol problem.'

'Call me an optimist.'

'Deluded fits better.'

The atmosphere in the bar had settled back to one of uneasy peace following Trouble's arrival in an apparently personal capacity. 'What do you want, Kelp?' I asked with my usual charm. I was a big hit with the ladies down at the dockyard.

'There's been a murder.'

'What a surprise. That's only the third murder I've heard about today. Who's so important they actually get a police investigation about their death?'

'He's a nobody. Owns a small-time seafood restaurant – _The Red Herring_. You've heard of it?' something in my face must have given it away.

'They do nice crab sticks. So why does this guy get some justice if he's such a nobody?'

'Wife's a squealer. She claims it was a triad hit, and is prepared to testify in court.'

'So I'm guessing she's prepared to die, too?'

'It's not gonna come to that. She's got twenty-four hour police surveillance. Doesn't water her ferns without three reports being written about it.'

I shrugged. 'Sounds like you've got it all under control, Major. What do you need a sleuth like me for?'

'Something doesn't sit right with me. Missus Silverman claims the B'Wa Kell killed her husband after he stopped paying their protection fee, but from what I can make out from their accounts, Silverman made his last payment a coupla weeks before he died.'

I stood and drained the last of my sim-whisky. 'Still don't see what you need me for. G'night Kelp.' I turned to leave.

'He also took out a big life insurance policy just over two weeks ago.'

I stopped to look at him, coat half-on and interest half-caught. 'I guess I've got time for one more drink...'

Trouble sighed, signalling Al. 'Another drink for Mister Diggums, please.'

'The Atlantean imported this time, Al,' I said, settling back into my stool. 'Not the cheap stuff.'

The Major nodded wearily, pulling out his wallet.

'So, you think the wife bumped him off for the insurance money?' I asked, once Trouble had handed over what looked like half a month's salary.

'That's what I want you to find out.'

'No offence, Major, but I doubt this dame's stupid enough to finger the triad for a crime they didn't even commit.'

'Maybe so, but it doesn't look like a triad hit.'

'Oh? What does it look like then?'

'Like he was hit over the head with a griddle pan.'

'Huh.'

'Exactly.'

'Still doesn't explain what you need me for. I know I'm hard to resist but even I've never charmed a woman into confessing before.'

'Don't worry Mulch, we don't want to torture her that badly.'

'Is that a joke, Major? I thought they were against LEP policy.'

'Lucky I'm off duty then. Which is also the only reason I've come to you. Somebody at City Hall is killing this investigation. I can't get a warrant to look through any of Mrs Silverman's records.'

'Hmm. Sounds easy enough. Of course, I might need to grease a couple of wheels ...'

Trouble sighed again, pulling out his wallet and emptying it onto the sticky bar counter. 'Take what you need.'

'You really think this broad's up to something, don't you?' I asked, sorting through the contents of the Major's wallet. There was a good couple of hundreds amongst the receipts for spring water and salad-based lunches. Even Trouble's digestive system was cleaner than most.

'What I really want to find out is why City Hall is against investigating this. They're normally the first to suspect insurance scams.'

'Yeah, yeah. I'm sure there's a big conspiracy to kill all the seafood restaurant owners in Haven.'

'You don't think this is suspicious?'

I laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder, leaving a dirty handprint on his pristine suit. 'For this much money, Trouble, I'll think whatever you want me to think. I'm not promising you anything, though.'

'I'm not asking you to.' He stood up to leave, dusting off his shoulders. 'Thank you, Mulch.'

I grunted and tilted my glass slightly in his direction before taking a swig. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Major shrug and turn towards the exit.

'Trouble?' I said after he'd taken a couple of steps. He turned around warily; I hadn't spoken loudly. 'You heard anything yet?'

He shifted his weight, hesitating. I imagined he was avoiding making eye contact with my back. 'I told you I'd call as soon as we had any new information.'

'I know,' I pinched the bridge of my nose. 'But two years ...'

'I miss her too. Foaly's working night and day to try and figure it out.'

A noise somewhere between a snort and a laugh escaped my lips. 'I'll call you when I find out more about this woman.'

'We've just got to stay positive.'

'Yeah. Easier said than done. Bye Trouble.' I said in a voice that closed the conversation.

'Bye Mulch.'

* * *

Nine o'clock the next evening I unlocked the door to the office. A scrap of paper on the glass bore the name _Diggums & Day Private Investigators_. It was a hastily-written note that was designed as a temporary amendment to the original that still lay underneath. Two years later and I was beginning to think it might be worth investing in a new sign.

'Get in or get out of the way, fatso. I need my evening cup of mud.'

'Good evening to you too, Doodah.'

The pixie mumbled something as he elbowed past me into the office. I rested against the doorframe as he set to work making the coffee.

'D'Arviting cheapskate dwarf, I've been using the same sim-coffee granules for a week. When are you going to buy something that doesn't taste like recycled troll droppings?'

I smiled my best smile at the pixie, the one that showed as many teeth as possible. Strangely, Doodah never warmed to it. 'I don't know Day. Maybe when I get a partner who brings in more money than he loses in damages?'

'Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.'

'You'd better take those troll droppings to go, anyway. I got us a case.'

'Is that right?' the pixie said, ripping open a sachet of sugar between his teeth. 'It's not the case of the missing early morning, is it? Because I think the answer's at the bottom of those empty scotch bottles under your desk.'

'No. And remind me to fire you when we get back.'

'Why don't you just fire me now and put us both out of our misery?'

'Because,' I said, 'for once you might actually serve a useful purpose. Things are about to get a little fishy.'

The neighbourhood was just beginning to smell when we pulled up outside _The Red Herring_ half an hour later.

'You taking me out for breakfast, Mulch?' Doodah asked, wrinkling his nose at the unlit neon façade of the restaurant – a cartoonish red fish, grinning widely from over the rim of a steaming pot. Classy.

'Even this place is too upmarket for you, Day. If I was gonna take you someplace to eat, the dumpster round the back of the office was free.'

The pixie made a breathy tutting noise. 'No thanks. Dwarf food always gives me a stomach ache. So what are we doing here then? Admiring the scenery?'

I looked down the street, ignoring Doodah's comment. The whole road looked sad and run-down, like a couple of notes left in your pocket during a wash. The newsagent across the street from _The Red Herring _showcased today's headlines in illiterate scrawl: _shuttel workers threten strike actshon_, whilst empty cartons from Spud's Spud Emporium rolled in the early evening breeze like tumbleweed.

'Let's get inside.' I said, heading up the steps to the frosted-glass entrance. All this gloom was working up my appetite.

Once Doodah caught up I began to knock on the door. I didn't bother to keep the noise down – this early in the evening Mrs Silverman was probably just getting up. It surprised me, then, to see a shadow form in the frosted glass almost from my first knock.

The door opened with an indignant squeak onto a pair of legs with a woman attached. She wrinkled a haughty nose at the pixie. I liked her already.

'Can I help you?' she had a voice as cold as an arctic winter, and twice as radioactive.

'Mrs Silverman?' She lifted her chin. _All the better to look down my nose at you._

'My name is Mulch Diggums, and this is my partner, Doodah Day. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband's murder.'

'I've already told the police everything I know. Good evening.' She made to close the door and I put my foot between it and the frame.

'If it's not too much trouble.' I said, flashing my patented ladykilling smile. Strangely, she didn't seem charmed by this display. 'I'm a friend of Major Kelp's.'

'I suppose I can spare five minutes.'

The corners of her eyes tightened at the mention of Trouble's name. Something told me she wasn't a fan of the Plaza's blue-eyed boy. Nevertheless, she left the door open and turned to sit at one of the nearby restaurant tables. I followed behind, taking a detour behind the bar to grab a bottle of sim-whisky. Mrs Silverman raised an eyebrow as I pulled up the chair beside her and tipped the neck of the bottle to my mouth.

I lowered the bottle after taking a mouthful. 'Send the bill to Police Plaza. Care of Major Kelp.'

'Mister Diggums, what can I do for you and your -,' she glanced over at Doodah, who had ignored her offhand gesture to join us at the table and was currently weighing a pair of silver candlesticks with his hands, '-friend? My husband was killed by the B'Wa Kell. What more do you need to know?'

'Do you know why your husband was targeted? We have reason to believe your husband made his last payment to the triad two weeks before he died. There doesn't seem to be much reason to carry out a hit.'

Mrs Silverman pursed her lips. 'And how much of a reason do you think the Triad needs to kill someone?'

Doodah snickered as he paced the room to look at _The Red Herring_'s menu. I noticed there was only one candlestick left on the table he'd moved away from.

'How good is your knowledge of the current seafood import situation, mister Diggums?'

I shrugged. 'My subscription to _Fishy Business_ must have lapsed.'

'The threat of a shuttle strike has pushed up the already high prices for legally imported fish. The B'Wa Kell anticipated that a supply shortage would mean our restaurant would experience more threats of violence than usual, and increased the price we pay in exchange for their protection. My husband couldn't afford the premium.' She said all this with about as much emotion as a troll stepping on a swear toad.

'And the life insurance he took out a couple of weeks before his death ...?'

'A precaution. One which turned out to be sadly prescient.'

'"Prescient" means knowing something is going to happen before it does.' I said, hooking my arm over the back of chair to look at Doodah.

'Is that so? Kind of how I know I'm going to knock every tooth out of your big fat head later?'

I bared my teeth at him before turning back to face the dame. 'Thank you for your time, Mrs Silverman.'

'That's it?' For the first time in our encounter she looked shaken. Five minutes ago she hadn't wanted us anywhere near her. Interesting.

I stood up. 'I think we've heard all we need. Come on Doodah. I know a nice little dumpster we can get you some breakfast.'

* * *

Six hours later, I was locking up the office when my communicator rang. I flipped up the screen.

'You've reached the comms unit of Mulch Diggums. I can't answer your call right now so leave a message, and I'll reply if I feel like it.'

'Mulch, you're on video screen.' The tiny image of Trouble Kelp stated.

'And this is a video recording. Goodbye.'

'I have a fifty here that says otherwise.' Trouble waved the note in front of the screen, the flash of green catching my eye before the screen disappeared.

'Alright, what do you want?'

'I know you visited Mrs Silverman earlier today. Did you find anything out?'

'How did you –'

'I told you, she's under LEP protection. We had people watching her.'

'That's funny, I didn't notice the smell of complete incompetence while I was there.' I sat back down at my desk, enjoying watching the Major's jaw stiffen.

'Mulch ...'

'She didn't tell me anything she hasn't already told you. Husband was killed by the B'Wa Kell, life insurance was just a coincidence. That mister Silverman was a lucky man, by the way. She makes a bull troll look warm and nurturing.'

'That's it?'

'Aside from a lecture about the economics of importing seafood. Sure you're not overthinking this, Trouble? If the broad is dumb enough to testify against the triad I wouldn't stand in her way.'

Trouble made a noise between a sigh and a growl. 'Maybe. Just –,' he pinched the bridge of his nose. For the first time, I wondered whether Trouble had told me everything about this case. 'Stay in touch. Something doesn't add up.'

'You're the boss,' I said, reaching over to terminate the call. 'Now if you don't mind ...'

'Yeah, yeah. I'll talk to you later.' The screen went black. I sat in silence for a moment, looking through the office blinds out at the city. A cop like Trouble was as rare as a mud man with a brain. Maybe the years of dealing with sleaze had finally broken him.

I reached into my desk drawer and pulled out a fungal cigar, lighting it as the sun strips began to dim and Haven started its evening shift in the grey light.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Right, I'm not going to waste your time with excuses/reasons as to why I've been AWOL for so long. Let's just say life, the universe and everything got in the way. As to The Private Wound, my incomplete fic, I'm going to be honest: I've lost the plot (literally). I want to continue it but I can't guarantee anything at the moment-I'm re-reading it now and trying to figure out where it was going, so bear with me. I'm also re-familiarising myself with _Artemis Fowl, _so if there are any canon mistakes (other than the AU details I've mentioned in the author's note at the beginning) let me know.

And, since it's tradition: reviewers get their choice of Diggums or Day, P.I., in the standard noir detective uniform of trenchcoat and fedora. The look's classic for a reason!


End file.
